Sweet Dreams
by Emmi.Hayes
Summary: What happens when Reese awakes after a Number takes matters into their own hands to find Finch looking after him? Rinch.


**Notes:** Thanks so much to PJTL156 for making me look good and fixing my screw ups. Any mistakes are my own, and this is Rinch. If you don't like it, don't read it—you've been warned.

I'm working on a part two for Domestic. It's slow going though.

**Disclaimer: ** Hot damn, I don't own Person of Interest. Who would have guessed?

Sweet Dreams

Reese awoke not knowing where he was. It took a fair amount of control to not bolt up and keep his eyes closed while his heart beat adrenaline threw his veins like icy water. He didn't move and he didn't change his breathing. This bed, for it couldn't be anything else, didn't feel right. The room didn't feel right. The sounds were all wrong, and it didn't smell right. It smelled like. . .

"Mr. Reese?" Finch whispered.

Reese opened his eyes and sat up slowly. "Mr. Reese, don't be alarmed. You're safe here. Are you alright?" The words were gentle and slow, as though Finch thought he might have forgotten who he was or how to speak English. Reese didn't answer. He sat there in a bed that wasn't his with a headache he wished he didn't own. "John, do you remember what happened?" Finch asked softly, then reached out as though he was going to touch Reese's arm. He didn't.

After a few moments of wide-eyed, tight-lipped examination Reese gave the other man a sideways glance and shook his head—that hurt like hell.

Was this Finch's bed? One of Finch's beds, that is.

"Ah, that's to be expected," Finch said with a sigh as he pushed himself out of the desk chair he must have rolled up to the side of the bed. He disappeared into what Reese assumed was a bathroom, from the sounds of the sink, and returned shortly with two red pills and a glass half full of water. "Take these. You took a rather nasty blow to the head. Our friend Mr. Dougan didn't seem to take to you following him that well," he explained as he sat back down.

After taking the pain relievers and finishing off the water Reese cleared his throat and began hoarsely, "How-"

But Finch held up a hand and he gratefully fell silent once more. "Our mutual friend helped me get you into the car. You're not my only employee, Mr. Reese. I had someone get you situated here. You've been out for almost five hours."

Reese sat there and thought about it. He remembered following the young man that day, and then leaving his car at the storage buildings. After that it was fuzzy and made his head throb worse. He should have been more careful. What if he had been killed, or found by Snow? Reese grew still and gripped the silky sheets until his knuckles turned white, but still didn't let go. "I'm sorry, Finch," he choked out. What if Snow had been there? What if he took his phone after putting a bullet in his skull? What if he had found the library? Or the Machine. Or Finch. "I'm so sorry." He was whispering the phrase like a broken record as '_what might have been'_ decided to dance around his mind like it was opening night at the theater.

Finch shushed him as he leaned forward and this time he did touch John's arm. "It's okay, Mr. Reese. You're only human." Finch seemed to be trying to soothe him, Reese noticed absently. Why wasn't it working?

"You're only human too, Harold." But Finch didn't seem to understand what John had meant as he sat down on the edge of the bed still murmuring words of encouragement. It wasn't until Reese felt a hand on his cheek, turning his head to look at his employer, did he blink and tune into what was being said to him.

"John, calm down. Everything is fine, so stop apologizing. You're alive, isn't that what's important?" Reese sighed and ducked his head. If only Finch knew. The hand remained on his cheek and Reese took the opportunity to lean into it. He hadn't shaved that morning; he wished he had. "Mr. Reese, you worried me. I hate when I can't get ahold of you."

It was a quiet admission; a light shed on a secret. A tiny secret, but a secret that belonged to the man who now called himself Harold Finch.

Reese looked up at Finch unsure of what to say: That he got nervous when Finch wasn't in his ear? That he found the sounds of his typing, uneven gait, and the pages of his old books being turned relaxing now, as opposed to being a nuisance, as they had been a few months ago? Then again, words weren't needed when you were kissing someone.

When had Finch pulled him into this kiss? Or had he pulled Finch into it? That likely wasn't the case. He was obviously still dazed, so that meant _Finch_ was kissing _him_.

Finch was _kissing_ him. God.

Reese suddenly found control of his hands again. That three piece suit was about to meet its match. "Harold," he gasped, thenslid the waist coat off his shoulders. Finch chuckled and pushed his chair away from the bed. When had he moved off the bed? Reese felt the need to pout as he watched his boss stand and turn to hang the article of clothing over the back of his chair. Then he reached up with those nimble fingers of his and began to remove his tie. Turning his head to look over his shoulder he wore a look of pure hunger in his eyes. Gone was the adorable little man and in his place was what John had to admit was purely arousing.

Oh.

"Is something the matter?" Finch asked when Reese sighed and leaned back against the headboard looking as though his puppy had just been kicked. Reese shrugged and the adorable, worried Finch sat on the edge of the mattress once more. "John?"

"It's just, this is a dream. It's never as fun when you realize it before you wake up." Finch always limped in his dreams, so it was always hard to tell. Reese had started to realize that his mind gave his boss too much range of motion in his neck, though.

"Oh, yes. I suppose you're right." Finch sighed and turned to face away from Reese. "Perhaps you should wake yourself up."

Reese shook his head. "I'm already here, might as well enjoy myself."

"Very well." Finch leaned over and placed his hand back on Reese's cheek. "I could be Jessica, if you wanted."

"No," John stated firmly. "That brings up too many bad memories in the morning." Finch just nodded and kissed him again and, for the life of him, Reese kissed back.

The room changed in a way only dreams allowed—when Reese wasn't looking—and suddenly he was in the library. Suddenly, he was standing and dressed, and Finch was at his desk staring at his monitors.

"Mr. Reese."

And, in only the way a dream would allow, Reese understood and moved behind his boss to set his hands heavily upon the man's shoulders. He squeezed the tense muscles and began to work his fingers into the knots.

After a moment, or maybe it was many, Finch looked up at him. Finch was all wrong. This man was leaner, and a few years younger, and, if he stood, was probably a few inches too tall. He was entirely not Finch, but at the same moment, was exactly the Finch John knew. John probably wasn't himself either, but he didn't feel like finding a mirror. He probably had less grey and fewer scars.

He was thankful to be in the library, the one place that had absolutely nothing to do with _her_ and everything to do with _him. _

Finch stood and was a little too tall with eyes a little too blue. "John, there isn't a new number. . ." _Ah._ The words he wanted to hear so badly. "I just wanted to see you. . ." This Finch could be just as flustered as the real one.

Reese reached out and ran his fingers through the thick tuffs of his boss's hair and inhaled the remarkably accurate scent of Finch. It was his dream; he may as well enjoy it.


End file.
